


demonstration

by besselfcn



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Erectile Dysfunction, Kink Meme, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-30
Updated: 2020-04-30
Packaged: 2021-03-01 20:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23933065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/besselfcn/pseuds/besselfcn
Summary: “They--the mutations make us sterile. There are... related side effects, for some.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 12
Kudos: 279
Collections: Witcher Kink Meme (Dreamwidth)





	demonstration

**Author's Note:**

> Based off [this kink meme prompt](https://witcherkinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/429.html?thread=384941#cmt384941), though I don't think I captured the mood the prompter was after. :( But regardless, here it is!

“Is it always like that?” 

Geralt is silent for a long while. He gets that set to his jaw; the one he gets when he pretends he hasn’t heard you, but he’s heard you perfectly well, he just thinks you don’t really deserve an answer. 

Or when he won’t like the answer he’s going to give you.

“I mean,” Jaskier says quickly, “not that I’m offended, I know these things are natural and I think you and I still had a rather enchanting time, don’t you, I mean _I_ certainly enjoyed the—”

“Jaskier.”

Jaskier quiets. 

He settles instead for tracing patterns on Geralt’s thighs with his fingers while Geralt works up the nerve to speak. They are rather lovely, _muscular_ thighs; he’d been thinking for weeks (alright, months (alright, years)) of what they might feel like under his fingertips, and they’re as obscenely solid as he imagined they’d be. 

And he’d be lying--though he has no problem with lying--if he said he hadn’t been thinking for the same weeks-months-years of what was between those thighs, and what _that_ might feel like, under his fingertips or settled inside him or on the back of his tongue. But despite his best efforts--and they’re very good--Geralt had kept directing him away until finally, with heat flushed in his cheeks, the witcher had said, “You can fuck me instead, if you like.”

Oh, the sound of those words! The sort of music one only dares dream of hearing; pure and heady and so terribly sweet. He may have told Geralt that, in the moment. He may have nearly been kicked out, too, but he managed to talk his way out of it. 

And Geralt had made these _noises_ , these lovely little noises, all punched out and pleased, and Jaskier had been bold and stupid enough to finish _inside_ him and the noise _that_ had drawn out would be playing in his mind for _days_ now—

But Geralt had still been soft, at the end of it all. And it’s not… really, he’s not offended. But he always appreciates a bit of constructive feedback, as any good performer might. 

The silence remains unbroken. Jaskier trails his fingers up Geralt’s ass, digs gently into the scant fat there and hears a grunt. Traces up a large scar on his side, his shoulders. He remembers this one, and this one. Heard the story about this one. Never seen this one before, all covered up in the dimple of his back. Geralt’s got tales written all over him that Jaskier’s only begun to unravel and pour into song.

He’s almost asleep, dreaming of a melody and something to rhyme with _viscera_ , when Geralt says, “Not always.”

“Hmm?” Jaskier says, peeking an eye open. “Oh, yes, this. Not always, you say?”

Geralt’s quiet again long enough Jaskier thinks perhaps he’s spooked him again, but then he says, “No. Usually, though. It’s not--it’s nothing to do with you.”

Jaskier nods. He puts a hand against Geralt’s back; he wishes he could see his face right now, all twisted in discomfort about sharing a genuine part of himself, looking the way most people only look when they’re passing a kidney stone. 

“A witcher thing?” he asks, because it usually is.

“Mm,” Geralt grunts. “They--the mutations make us sterile. There are... related side effects, for some.”

Damned Witchers, Jaskier thinks, not for the first time. Damned Kaer Morhen, damned Trials. They take so many things of a man; his humanity, his childhood, his sense of self-preservation. Could they not leave a man his cock, and by extension, his Gods-given right to have a talented and beautiful bard sit upon it? The horrors of that strange and vicious world do never cease. 

“A right shame,” Jaskier says, in summary, and Geralt makes an indeterminable noise. 

“It’s still pleasurable,” he says. “And it’s been a long time. I don’t mourn for what was before.”

Jaskier nods, then stops nodding and furrows his brow as realization creeps up on him. “Hang on then,” he says. “What is it you’re doing with all those whores you pay for? Not just chatting them up, are you?”

The snort Geralt makes encompasses his entire body; it’s impressive, actually. “Jaskier,” he says. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you of all people how a man can use his hands and mouth.”

A flush overtakes Jaskier’s body at the mere mention of Geralt’s hands and mouth, and it only amplifies with the realization that they are _right there_ , and he is _allowed to touch them._

“I’m not sure,” Jaskier says, rolling over onto his back, limbs stretched. “Perhaps I need a demonstration.”

The room stills again. Jaskier, despite his body’s protestations, is ready to brush it off as always, forget and go to sleep.

Then Geralt is on him, over him, with a hungry mouth and bruising fingers and all that stamina and strength regained, and Jaskier thinks, _alright, then_. He thinks, _the Witchers aren’t so awful, after all._


End file.
